Dragon Age  Loyalty
by Knight of Zero
Summary: Thedas is in turmoil. A devoted Templar, a Circle healer, a penitent murderer and a Dalish elf with a burden are thrown together by chance into a world where morality is greyer than they thought. An original DA2 fanfic and cast  please review! .
1. Prologue  Part One

The cool air brushed past the branches, the gleam of the moon passing between the thick leaves of the trees. Between blades of rustling grass, the faint lights of flickering flames peered out from the distant homes. The soft sound of Lake Calenhad's waters brushing up against its banks mingled with the chirp of the crickets in the summer air, and the glimmering light of the stars shone, reflected in the calm lake like a mirror of the heavens themselves.

The peace was quickly broken by the clattering of armour. Off to one side, a single figure stood, his hands quietly resting on the pommel of the greatsword stuck in the dirt in front of him, looking over the sparse, wooden huts in front of him. To one side, leaning against a tree, another man simply watched and waited, cradling his helm under one arm as his loose brown hair flicked and fluttered.

Eventually, the figure contemplating the village stood. He turned his head ever so slightly towards the man next to the tree, one of his brilliant green eyes visible under the moonlight and, a toothy grin quietly crossing his face, the man nodded wordlessly in response before pulling his metal helm over his head. Picking his own up from the ground near him, the figure looked over the faint flickering lights before him one last time, wordlessly, before doing likewise, pulling the helm down over his curled black hair. Grasping his sword's grip in one hand, he quietly extricated it from the ground and swung it into its place on his back; there was no greater an honour than the right to join his brothers on the path to righteousness.

As they approached the village, quietly assembling by its borders, a single armoured man with a crested helm stood at the head of the assembling host, looking with, if his expression had not been obscured by his thick, metal headgear, apparent disdain over the pitiful settlement in front of him. In the distance, in the centre of the lake, a tower and a full complement of Templars stood between the cursed mages and the rest of the world, but it was only to be expected that one of the scum would eventually find their way out; after all, what did they have to do with their lives other than scheming and plotting?

No matter. This, after all, was their calling, that of the truly faithful. Calling over one of his men from the back, he watched as the called man stepped forwards with another at his side. They looked over the village in silence for a moment before, gesturing towards the inn, he quietly muttered "The accursed mage takes refuge in the most obvious of places. I will leave the honour of taking his head to you; go and make an example of him for others to heed."

The figure solemnly nodded and, looking out over the village once more, quietly left the ranks of his compatriots, walking briskly towards the inn's light. He was quickly joined by another set of faster clattering footsteps and, out of the darkness came a question, muffled slightly by the confining nature of the steel helmet pulled over the warrior's head.

"Are you truly ready to... make an example of this mage, Ser Lynell?" The voice alone, gently mocking and subtly aloof, spoke volumes and the figure with the greatsword, or Ser Lynell, quietly nodded.

"Wherever the Maker leads, I follow." came the humourless response. "... you, Ser Severn?"

"I go even where the Maker dares not lead." came the response and another grin, slightly contorted, this time obscured behind the thick metal helm.

* * *

Splinters rained down on the floor as a single, plated boot smashed through the door, and another swift kick brought the wooden slab crashing onto the floor. From behind his counter, his hands raised above his head in an act of desperation, the innkeeper looked up in fear and horror towards the imposing shadows emerging from amidst the wispy cloud of dust, and as the sound of armoured plates rose with every slow step, he slowly and warily stepped back, his right hand searching for the axe he kept around for situations like this. Where the hell was Ser Carroll when you needed him, that absentminded son of a...

A long, flowing purple skirt over dull chainmail flowed down to the ground. As he slowly raised his eyes, he caught sight of a sash, a familiar flaming sword emblazoned onto a gleaming chestplate and, above that, two eyes looking back towards him from behind a thick metal bucket helm. This was no intruder into his innkeeper. This was...

"S... Ser Templar. I wasn't expecting you sir, not at all." His eyes still looking into those of the man standing in front of him, he breathed deeply and leaned forwards onto his counter, trying to calm himself and the shock running through him. His hand reached for a bottle, shaking vehemently and, looking over the innkeeper with what looked like indifference, Lynell stepped forwards, reaching into a pouch at his side before producing the insignia of the Templar Order, placing it squarely before the innkeeper's eyes as Severn sauntered past him, towards the stairs. The innkeeper looked up at it, the emblem emblazoned upon the object unmistakable, even in the shadows of his decrepit inn.

Pushing the insignia back into the pouch, Lynell quietly spoke as the innkeeper's eyes slowly rose to meet his own. "We are here at the behest of the Chantry to seek a mage who has escaped the Tower. He is not long gone, and cannot have escaped far."

He stammered, trying to regain his composure, a difficult endeavour given the fact that a Templar was currently leaning over the counter, staring into his eyes with an almost disturbingly piercing intensity. "I... There's one who arrived earlier today?"

"Where?"

"Upstairs. Room with the Lake view."

Lynell glared at him for a moment longer, but the terror in the innkeeper's eyes was genuine... it was human. Nodding and standing, he pushed the wreckage of the door aside with his boot and made his way towards where Severn was standing.

"Are... are you going to destroy my inn?" stammered the innkeeper after the Templar making his way towards the stairs but, even as he drew his greatsword from its place on his back, bringing the menacing weapon to rest by his side, there was no response. The other Templar, drawing his two shortswords in turn, laughed eerily as the innkeeper winced, expecting some kind of divine reprimand. Instead, as he recoiled, there was a rustle and he looked down to see a single copper rolling along the ground towards him, hitting the devastated remains of the door with a 'clink' before coming to rest in the dust.

"Don't you worry." came the mocking reply. "The Maker rewards the faithful well."

* * *

He stood by the window, feeling the cool breeze against his cheek as the candle at his side flickered. The starlight, the lake... everything looked different from here. And the Tower! Seeing its sheer size from outside, he felt joy welling up inside his heart, but with a sinking feeling he realised that freedom was a momentary phenomenon. He hadn't gone so far as to destroy his phylactery, and yet he realised that he should have. Looking up, at the Tower inside which he had been imprisoned for so long and the world before him, his thoughts began to spin. He was free. Free! He could savour the air, he could see things for what they were, he could do what he wanted to do! Now that he had tasted the forbidden fruits, he realised with dread that he couldn't return to the Circle, but, most importantly, he didn't want to. But to refuse would be defying the will of the Chantry...! He couldn't think straight, and yet, within the turmoil of his emotions, as he tried desperately to cling to something, anything, a single voice spoke out clearly.

Who cares? About the will of the Chantry, about everything? This was his life.

The solution, now that his mind was clear, was simple.

* * *

The corridor leading to the room felt... constricting. Frowning, and gripping his sword tightly, Lynell gestured towards the other side of the corridor, and Severn obliged, pressing himself against the cool stone as they approached the door. They could hear heavy breathing; his green eyes frowning, Lynell pushed himself up against the door.

"I... don't want... to go back..." Murmuring interspersed with heavy breathing echoed ethereally beyond the portal into the room. "I... can't go back. I don't have to... go back..."

"... mage?" asked Lynell, warily. "Surrender yourself, and we will show mercy."

"... don't have to..." The ethereal echoing seem to leak past the door, and Lynell frowned. He felt the air grow dank and, gulping, he rapped his armoured knuckles against it.

"Mage, open the door." The murmuring continued, the air now empty of any coherent responses, and he stepped back in surprise as a faint red light began to seep out from under the entrance.

Severn smiled. "This mage will be a fun distraction. I'll carve the tenets of his cursed Circle into his corpse when we're done with him."

As he pulled at the door handle, only to find it locked, Lynell tried to ignore the disturbing words of his fellow Templar; instead, curtly saying "Get behind me.", he turned his greatsword and slammed his pommel against the door; feeling the lock buckle, he saw the glow of the red light increase in strength and brightness and he quickly smashed his pommel against the door again as the air seemingly closed in once more, tighter than before. Splinters and slivers of shattered wood hit the ground by his boots and, feeling the lock quiver under his blow, he stepped back further and, summoning as much might as he possibly could, brought his pommel upon the door one last time, finally feeling the lock break. The door, splinters showering behind it, slammed open, and Lynell stumbled forwards, sword in hand, looking up to a putrid, horrible stench and an even worse sight before his eyes.

"... want freedom... want life... leave me alone." The hollow voice rang out through the room and met nothing but silence as the Templar slowly edged away from the sight before their eyes. "... want you to die... want to get out..." The shambling beast, with some semblance of a human head hanging limply to one side, its eyes staring accusingly at the warriors standing before it, stood in the centre of the room. Its rotting flesh squirmed as the creature tried to move, edging towards the Templars who quietly stepped back, step by step, their eyes fixed by grim horror and fascination to the mage in front of them. Its skinny, powerless arms jerked involuntarily and, looking into its eyes with horror, Lynell searched desperately for any semblance of humanity, for anything recognisable, but all he saw was blank accusation staring into him and he realised that, despite all the training, despite all the books, he wasn't ready for this.

"You're beyond saving now!" Before he could react, he watched as Severn rushed forward towards the shambling Abomination, swinging both of his swords out in a wide arc, both going towards the thing's head off to one side of his body. The Templar had already rushed to the Abomination's side, evading one of its flailing arms, and he brought up his blade to meet its body.

"Ser Severn...!" Trying to step forwards, Lynell was forced to watch as the Templar, blocking the entrance into the room, had his left hand blade intercepted by the Abomination's arm; trying to cut through the acrid flesh, he found that his sword was caught in the rotting body and, grinning as he let the weapon go, he stepped back and drew a dagger from his sash.

He threw the dagger into the Abomination's eye and, as the pointed steel plunged into its mark with incredible accuracy, the creature howled. As the howl faded out, Severn's laughs went up and he rushed forwards, already drawing his other dagger as he shouted "Yes. Yes! This is the kind of fight I enjoy, mage! Give it your all... make this worthwhile!" Barging into its body mass, and taking it off balance, he managed to push it a few steps back into the room, strange fluids running down his armour as he plunged the dagger into its body, dragging the weapon down as far as he could to draw open the wound, letting the warm, sticky blood spill onto the ground by his boots. The Abomination stumbled back, and Severn grinned wider than ever, looming over the beast with one sword in hand, advancing slowly upon the struggling thing with a strange expression on his face. "Didn't you hear me?" he asked. "I'm going to carve every letter of your mages' laws into your rotting side." The Abomination struggled vehemently, but Severn managed to overpower it and, placing a single boot on its side, raised his blade and tried to push it into its flesh, grunting. Watching the grotesque struggle from the side, Lynell quietly advanced down the corridor, trying to move into the wider room, where he would be able to use his longsword. Severn had managed to push his sword closer to the Abomination, which began to flail as the blade met its side, accompanied by the Templar's frenzied laughter. Blood was spattering into the air, and it grew limp and still as Severn's blood neared it.

"... no... no!" A distorted voice erupted from the very depths of the Abomination, and, looking up, the last thing Severn saw was a sheet of flame.

The flash blinded him. Before he could do anything, he saw flames licking at the room around him, half the roof burned to nothing, and Lynell quickly turned to see Severn's unconscious body lying limply by the doorway. Slowly turning his eyes towards the Abomination, his greatest fears were quietly confirmed, and a bead of sweat ran down his cheek as he looked up towards it.

The thing stood taller than ever. Sticky blood was spattered across its side, but its arms seemed to have recovered, despite the sword stuck inside one of them and, slowly extricating the dagger from its eye, the Abomination, heaving and breathing heavily, stared at Lynell, who bit his lip and tried to look away from the slit eyeball rolling as it looked towards him.

"... why are you here..." Hollow whispers echoed through his head, and Lynell glared up at the Abomination. "... I want to be free... we want to be free... free..." It staggered forwards, blood gurgling from its wounds, and Lynell shook his head. What was this... feeling? Desire welled up inside him, and suddenly, he could hear it tugging at his heartstrings, whispering and murmuring. All he had to do was give in, and anything he wanted was his. All he had to do was give in...

"... No!" His mind cleared, and the Abomination recoiled, screeching. The piercing shriek cut through Lynell's head but, readying his blade and standing his ground, he shook his head. "... I'm sorry." The shriek slowly subsided, and Lynell no longer felt the tugging at his heartstrings, filled instead with pity and yet decisive conviction. Slowly looking up, he clenched his teeth, taking in the sight in front of him, and realised something.

"I can't help you now. You're beyond saving."

The Abomination roared, flecks of blood and fluid spattering against the walls of the small room, and rushed forward. Its arms were outstretched; Lynell hurled himself to one side as it crashed into the wall against which he had just been standing and he saw the Abomination struggling, its arm stuck through the weak wall. Cracks were already appearing as it tried to extricate itself and, seizing the opportunity, Lynell rushed forwards, slashing up with his sword. The first cut embedded the blade in the Abomination's side, but he gritted his teeth and pulled it through, the warm blood spattering out against his armour. Wailing incoherent cries, it pulled itself out, shards of plaster imploding as it quickly turned and lunged for his head. He couldn't react quickly enough; feeling the grip of the Abomination against his helmet, he ducked down, pulling his head out in a split second before it was slammed flat against the wall. Stumbling back, Lynell tried to control his breathing, his hair matted with sweat and his grip on his blade tough and uncomfortable. But there was no time to think or shift his grip; the creature's bulk threw itself against where he had been standing and, stumbling off the left, narrowly avoiding the Abomination, he managed to slice off one of its arms with a wild blow from his blade. Its blood dribbled from his blade's edge, and it screamed as Lynell grimly prepared for another assault.

There was a flash and, his instincts screaming at him, he ducked down as the sheet of flamed rushed past his head. As it shot past him, he stumbled, keeping his head under the flames, towards the Abomination's bulk, the blood from its open wounds dribbling onto his hair and down his neck, and he winced as he felt it, hot thanks to the flames but this was no place to stop. Pushing himself up against it, Lynell watched through squinted eyes as it struggled, sending its flames crashing down the corridor. By this time, the room was in flames, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Templars looking helplessly up at the fight from around the inn, their armour lit eerily by the moonlight. He was alone.

He swung his sword upwards, and found flesh. Dragging the blade around, he eventually freed it from the Abomination's body and, as it squealed and recoiled, he felt rage and adrenaline pouring through him as he slashed again and again at the Abomination, feeling sporadic bouts of flame rushing past him but ignoring the heat singeing his body as every blow made contact with the corrupted daemon, each squeal and shriek weaker than the last until, finally, his armour glistening with spattered blood, his body wracked with heavy breathing as he swung the sword, he met air and he looked up, stumbling in the pool of blood at his feet.

The Abomination crashed to the ground, limply heaving, its rotting flesh in ribbons and stained with its own fluids as its eyes looked emptily up at Lynell. "... want..." it murmured. "... want... your life.. .want... power..."

He mustered enough strength to bring the blade down into its face, through its bulk before slumping down, looking up long enough to see the creature's limp jerking stop before he felt the darkness rush past his weariness and overwhelm him.

* * *

Ferelden had reached its supposed zenith. But thirty years prior to the current day, the nation had only just secured its independence, having fought a bitter war of independence from Orlesian rule under the leadership of King Maric Theirin. From war, however, came swift rebirth and, under the rule of their new King, Ferelden flourished. Peace was made between the fledgling nation twenty years after its independence was gained, and from there it continued its indisputable rise from rebel state to full kingdom in the eyes of the world; people flocked to this land of opportunity, and all was, save for the occasional trouble, good.

Within Ferelden, there had been a long established Circle of Magi; formed within the imposing Kinloch Hold at the centre of Lake Calenhad, an ethereal tower rising far above anything near it and the lasting symbol of the Circle within the minds of many. Under the Orlesian occupation, however, another force had come to Ferelden; the Chantry of Andraste, a religion which had embedded itself firmly in Fereldan culture despite the defeat of the Orlesian occupiers. Chantries were located even in the smallest of villages, and its influence over Ferelden was indisputable. For many, it was a source of enlightenment and even salvation; prayer and shelter were only two out of many social roles played by the well established Chantry, despite its obvious Orlesian origins and influence. For many, it was a fact of life.

But for others, the looming presence of the Templar Order still presented a source of uncertainty. Instantly recognisable, the armoured and armed militant fist of the Chantry's will, Templars kept the peace within Ferelden, hunting down apostates with what some described as necessary, and what others labelled as brutality.

Thus, Ferelden flourished over thirty years; despite the death of King Maric in the 25th year of the Dragon Age, his son Cailan assumed the throne, and under the guidance of Teyrn Loghain, Maric's trusted friend and advisor, the new king's rule was quietly pushed in the right direction.

But good times, as they say, never last. At the dawn of the Dragon Age, those of the Chantry foresaw a time of turmoil and conflict when they named it, and the signs have been clear. The Age began with conflict in the form of the Fereldan Rebellion, but that was simply the beginning. Now, powerful forces have begun to shift, and as news of the rise of long forgotten creatures to the West runs like wildfire across the fledgling Kingdom, an army drawn from the Bannorn sets out for Ostagar to deal a decisive blow to the gathering Darkspawn under the banner of the eager King Cailan Theirin, determined to end this Blight before it has begun. Tales are spreading of the return of the Grey Wardens, of the Witch of the Wilds, of the Orlesians making moves to the West, of change and moves in the deepest, furthest reaches of Thedas. Some tales are true, others works of fiction, and there is very little certainty in these dark days. If one thing is certain, however, it is that change has come, and that the fate of many rests in the hands of the few.

Yet for now, the banners of the King fly over Ostagar, and there is hope for the future as Cailan marshals his forces for the coming battle. Oblivious to the full consequences of the events that will unfold in the coming few weeks, the Chantry remains complacent, content to rest and watch events unfold before it, and its militant arm in Ferelden accepts the decision of its masters and does likewise, prepared for the most part simply to fulfil its role as the enforcers of the Chantry's will in Ferelden. Illusions of a quick resolution to a seemingly minor conflict run through the minds of many; when the future comes, it will come in a form that none could possibly have envisioned.

* * *

White light...? But where were the fires? He winced as he tried to open his eyes, giving up as he lay, dumbfounded, as light peered through his eyelids. It danced and flickered and, after a moment of silent passivity, thoughts began to run through his head.

He remembered... fighting. Was this the afterlife, then? It felt uneventful for something he had been working towards for so long, but then, perhaps the true reward lay in the virtue of his past life.

"... Templar."

A voice somewhere to his left. His eyes flickered and snapped open, his breathing heavy as consciousness came to him.

The ceiling above was cold, hard stone, with the occasional opening letting in air and clear light from the sunny sky above. He heard footsteps echoing through the chamber he was in; his mind fuzzy and still waking up from the dreamlike state in which he had been in for however long, it took him a moment to realise that he was in Kinloch Hold, the Circle of Magi, within the healing room which he, in better times, guarded.

"Please, don't move." He tried to shift over to his left to see the source of the command, but a searing pain cut through his back and he wordlessly collapsed back into his previous position, the voice adding "I did warn you, Serrah." before he felt something tingling, running up his spine before vanishing at the root of his neck. Cautiously turning, he found that the pain had disappeared, and he managed to roll over, his eyes falling on the mage leaning over the table, quietly removing what appeared to be a variety of worn blades and hooks lying on a wooden tray.

"... how long?" he managed after a moment, rolling back into his original position as he contemplated the bland ceiling.

"A week, I believe. The other Templar recovered a day after he was admitted, but your problems were not restricted to the flesh. The First Enchanter himself struggled to comprehend what was running through your mind, but you calmed down after a while." she replied, dropping the contents of the tray into a bucket and putting it back down. "The rest was simple healing, which is my area of specialisation."

He was wordless, and she paused for a moment to see if he was alright. "... could I have a mirror?" he asked, after a while, and she nodded, handing over a rudimentary one which had been by his bed. He took it and brought it up towards his face.

"The wounds were not too critical, if you are concerned." she offered, but Lynell raised the mirror in front of him and looked nonetheless. He saw himself looking up, slight bags under his green eyes; his slightly gaunt face was as he remembered it, but under his black hair, there was a slight, unnoticeable singe which drew his eye.

"What happened?" he asked, more curious than concerned, and the mage pulled over a parchment.

"Burns, for the most part. It seems as though you didn't really notice during the engagement, but you suffered some significant injuries of that kind. There were also torn muscles, but those have all recovered." She looked over the document lingeringly before putting it away. "I will... get the Knight-Commander. He expressed his desire to see you upon your recovery."

"... it's fine. I'll go myself." replied Lynell, lifting himself up cautiously, feeling the sunlight glaring down at him. He glanced over to the left of his bed; his greatsword, the only heirloom he had, rested to one side, his armour laid out under it. The mage was busying herself with cleaning up the treatment equipment, and glancing at the blood spattered across the blade of his uncleaned blade, a thought crossed his mind, and he turned his eyes away, frowning ever so slightly.

"Did you know the escapee?"

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and the healer stopped what she was doing momentarily, her head turned away. "He was not what most would call happy. He was a recluse... preferring to keep to himself, and away from human contact. Though I do recognise that what he did was a crime, I cannot help but wonder whether this problem could have been averted simply by talking to him earlier. He was only really a disturbed soul. Nothing more."

Lynell didn't respond, quietly thinking about what she had said. As the mage turned to leave, adding "The Knight-Commander seems impatient to see you, Ser Templar." Lynell nodded and turned away as she began to walk away, but something seemed to linger.

"What was his name?"

"Sorry?"

"The escaped mage. What was his name?" The mage, mildly surprised, turned, but what she saw in Lynell's expression was indecipherable.

"... Apprentice Beledan." Lynell nodded, and his eyes wandered back towards the sky. He lay quietly, watching the occasional cloud float past, and she glanced back at him, her surprise still there.

"I must admit, I have never seen a templar who showed the slightest shred of interest in his victims." A moment of silence hung over them, and Lynell shook his head.

"... not all of us are the same. Mage or Templar." The mage nodded hesitantly and, with one last glance towards Lynell, left, her footsteps receding into the distance as he lay, still staring up into the blue sky. Eventually, he pulled himself with some effort out of his bed, stumbling as he walked on unused legs, but managed to pull on his thick armour with his assistance and quickly reached for his helmet and sword.

His helmet. Remembering its graphic fate, and quietly reminding himself to visit the quartermaster after meeting with the Knight Commander, he hefted his blade onto its place on his back and left the medical wing and its peace behind him.

The response he'd given to the mage's observation wasn't one he had thought out. It was more honest than he would have liked, coming out of him instinctively, and yet the more he considered it, the more it seemed right. A shard of light in a darkened mind, he let the warm glow of the thought stay with him as he made his way towards the top of the tower.

* * *

The vast chamber was filled with the sound of speaking voices and their echoes; by the looks of it, some kind of argument was going on. As he cautiously rose up the steps, his eyes drawn to the stained glass window to one side of the chamber, it struck Lynell that this was the first time he had entered the Harrowing Chambers, at the top of the Tower he had known throughout his life. The stone vault rising high above him, Lynell quietly made his way to the top of the steps, and looking into the centre of the circular chamber, saw the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander arguing about something.

"It would be beyond foolish to refuse this, Irving." He rarely saw the Knight Commander this upset, and Lynell stood back, waiting for them to finish.

"Greagoir, it is a short trip to a calm village in the south. The only arguments you are putting forwards are driven by your own paranoia."

"There are darkspawn to the south! How can you act so nonchalantly?"

"My mages can take care of themselves, Greagoir. It will take more than a darkspawn invasion to turn them." Evidently wearied by the argument, the First Enchanter turned and walked a few steps away from the Knight Commander, who didn't seem willing to leave it at that.

"If you spoke of a normal person, I would agree with you. But the turning of the mage has effects that are not simply restricted to the halls of the magi; without a Templar, such an Abomination could cause unheard havoc!"

His eyes furiously turning to meet the advancing Knight-Commander's, Irving quietly asked "I do not know of any besides you amongst the Templars here who have fought and defeated a true abomination outside the Tower itself. What point is there in sending a novice? You would be better off keeping your forces here and trusting my mages to do their work unhindered. This is unlike you, Greagoir, and it worries me."

The Knight-Commander shook his head. "We cannot afford another loss, Irving. The Chantry is breathing down my back and I have no choice in the matter." Turning towards Lynell, he waved him over and the young Templar obliged, stepping forward and kneeling.

"Knight-Commander."

"Ser Celan Lynell." Greagoir motioned him over, adding "You know First Enchanter Irving. I take it you were listening to our little... debate?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander." Lynell glanced over at the mage, who's eyes were on him with a hint of curiosity gleaming in them.

"You are one of the few Templars within this Tower who have encountered and defeated an Abomination in the flesh. I understand that you're relatively young, and new to field service within the Order, but the circumstances are dire and unfortunately, you are the only man I can spare out of those here." Greagoir motioned him over towards a nearby table, where a candle flickered over a map laid out under it and he pointed out the Tower and the Lake Calenhad Docks to the north of the lake. "This is the Tower." he explained, pulling the candle closer as the other two followed the movement of his finger. "Your objective is to escort this mage along the road south until here..." At this point, he prodded said point on the map for added effect. "... Lothering. You will accompany the mage there, and report to the Revered Mother for further instructions."

The name was familiar. Lynell quickly reminded himself of what he knew; it was a small village, a trading hub, a regional centre... and there, he was lost for thoughts. It struck him there that he knew remarkably little about the outside world and its ways.

"Oh yes, Ser Lynell. During this trip, you'll have to give up your armour." Greagoir turned towards the First Enchanter, who nodded, and he explained "Parading the Templar colours would simply draw attention, so we think it would be better if you went in a manner that would render you inconspicuous. The Quartermaster will have set aside some supplies and equipment for your use." Glancing at the Templar, the Knight-Commander added "Worry not, you will keep your sword. I understand that it is of some value to you." Lynell nodded, and the First Enchanter, returning the gesture, took his leave. As his figure receded into the distance and down the steps, Greagoir's expression darkened.

"... I take my leave, Knight-Commander." said Lynell after a moment of silence, and the Knight-Commander nodded his approval. As Lynell turned and walked through the cold chamber towards the steps, however, Greagoir uttered a final remark.

"These are dark times, Templar. Keep your eye open and your mind clear."

Lynell halted, but there was nothing to consider. The meaning of the words was clear enough. Replying "Yes, Knight-Commander.", he continued on his way, leaving the Knight-Commander to himself, his bearded face and his weariness illuminated by the flickering of the candle as he sat and wondered what came next.

* * *

The Quartermaster had taken the news relatively well, only going so far as to make one or two comments about the fate of his helmet as Lynell handed over his armour. Undoing his sash, and handing over the rest of the armour, his gaze lingered on it before he handed it over to the Quartermaster.

"Keep it. It's not as though a sash will give you away." Mild surprise in his eyes, Lynell looked up and the Quartermaster, who had already turned away, and he bit his lip as he nodded haltingly.

"Thank you." A memento of better times. Clutching it tightly, he left the Quartermaster's chambers towards the Tower's entrance, where his supplies, equipment and charge were waiting.

* * *

"... Ser Templar, I believe we've met." Looking at the mage, Lynell suppressed his surprise; he should have known, after all. Turning his eyes away, and moving past her towards the equipment, picking up the armour laid out there, he began to pull it on. As he fitted his head through his leather chestpiece, pulling it on and tightening the strings, the mage began to look through the supplies, looking for something.

The metal plates for his left arm were a little bulkier than those he usually wore. Looking over his large left shoulder-piece, and at his flattened leather pauldron on his right shoulder, Lynell realised that the unusual combination made the most of his two handed sword-fighting. It was a kind gesture by the Quartermaster, who seemed unusually sentimental; was there something he didn't know? Fitting on his left gauntlet, he glanced towards the mage, and asked "Did you know that this would happen?"

"When I was told that I would have a Templar escort, I must admit that I guessed you would be the one. I can assure you that I had no prior knowledge of these arrangements, however." she replied, still searching through the supplies. "We should set out before noon, Ser Templar."

He nodded, pulling on his left hand's leather gauntlet and pulled on his own brace of daggers, wrapping it around his chestpiece before putting a scarf around his neck. Fitting the greatsword into its place on his back, Lynell was left holding the sash, waiting for the mage to finish whatever she was doing when a familiar voice shouted out at him from across the chamber.

"Ser Lynell." Fully recovered, and as... enigmatic as ever, Severn sauntered towards Lynell, a thin smile crossing his face. "Thanks to you, I'll be able to draw blood once more."

"You're welcome." Lynell looked into Severn's eyes, but he saw nothing different in the Templar. The same hint of insanity, the same unsettling gaze, looked back at him, and it seemed to smile as Severn patted him on the shoulder.

"I'm being sent to Kirkwall, I hear there's some commotion there. I don't know what'll happen to you, but let's hope we cross paths again. I'll return the favour." he replied. "Keeping favours is a distraction, and I'd rather get them over with when I can."

"... don't worry about it, Ser Severn." Lynell always felt uncomfortable around this particular comrade of his, and he turned to pick up the bag of supplies, swinging it over his shoulder and tying it around him to keep it in place.

"I insist." Severn's strange grin had returned to his face, and he added "But for now, have a safe trip... friend."

Lynell nodded. The eyes of the Templars fixed on them, the unlikely pair glanced at each other before leaving the Tower of Magi for what promised to be a simple journey south.

* * *

It was already ten minutes since they had departed from the Tower, and, as they walked in the shade of a forest, the birds chirping noisily, she glanced at the Templar who was accompanying her, bored, as they said, out of her mind. It had occurred to her about five minutes beforehand that he was not the most talkative of people, but his continual refusal to make conversation did nonetheless surprise her. He was different from most Templars, but evidently that stretched beyond his sentiments.

Pulling a crumpled map from the sack at her side, she made a rough estimate of their current position. There was, at the very least, a day left until they reached their destination to the south, and she did not relish the prospect of spending that period doing nothing but walking in particular. Trying at first to grab his attention with a succession of humming, flicking through her map absentmindedly and finally making the occasional observation about the nature around them, she found that the Templar was unusually unresponsive, choosing instead to keep an eye on the road ahead. He refused to display either interest or annoyance, and she began to wonder whether he was simply being cryptic to irk her. Defeated, she glumly returned to making the occasional observation about the nature around them, searching for something to do or talk about.

Things only got worse. She became acutely aware of the boredom and eventually, she wracked her mind for the simplest question she could ask when it struck her; she only knew her guard as Ser Templar.

* * *

"Ser Templar, if I may ask... what exactly should I call you?" The question came out of the blue, and Lynell shrugged. He didn't know the answer himself, and he had to think before he managed to come up with an answer."

"Most call me Ser Lynell. Others call me Celan." It really _was_ out of the blue, and he was struggling to think of what to say. "You can... call me anything."

... but he didn't know what to call her. "What should I call you?"

"Healer?" she offered. "The Templars insist on calling me by my title."

"I though we'd agreed that none of us are the same?" Celan turned back to the road, his expression still neutral. The dirt track stretched far into the distance. Hopefully, they'd remain under the shade of the trees until the blazing afternoon heat let up, because at this rate, they'd...

"My name is Eliann Wulff. Many choose to call me many things. Eli is the most common form, although others choose to..."

"Wulff is fine." Without intending to, he quickly broke off the conversation; he didn't understand why, but something felt wrong, and his right arm shivered.

* * *

The curt reply took her aback, and after a moment, she sighed and returned to observing the forest around them. He was as impassive as a rock, without the potential for entertainment that rocks had. Fidgeting with her robes absentmindedly and humming again, she followed him down the forested road. In the distance, the light shone through from what looked like the end of the woods, and she frowned as she heard something coming towards them. The sound of metal crashing against the paved road...?

"Ser Lynell, I hear a..."

"Get behind me, Mage Wulff." His hand had already gone for his sword as he muttered the command and she did so, looking curiously towards the source of all the commotion. The Templar was gripping his sword tightly, ready to lash out at the horse galloping rapidly into sight, but as the charger came into sight, she recognised the rider in a flash of understanding and stepped out in front of Celan.

"This man is no enemy, Ser Lynell." She waved, and the horse gradually came to a stop. Wordless, Lynell kept a hand on his sword but even he seemed to recognise the man after a moment, quietly sheathing the weapon and walking towards the horse as the man on it breathed deeply in relief.

"I thought you were Darkspawn. I've seen enough of them, I have." He pointed towards the sword at his side, which was covered in thick blood and added "What's a mage and templar doing outside the Hold in dark times like this, then?"

Before Eliann could answer, Celan retorted "It's more worrying to see a messenger of the Chantry fleeing so rapidly from the south. What happened?"

The messenger's face fell, and he breathed deeply for a moment. "Terrible tidings come from the south, Ser Templar. I escaped just in time, but..."

"... but?"

He shook his head powerlessly. "The Army at Ostagar has fallen, and the Blight continues on."

"The Army at Ostagar?" Celan vaguely remembered hearing of the King marching to Ostagar to engage the Blight... which meant...

Eliann's voice was hushed as she asked "What of the King?" but the answer was clear enough in the man's eyes. The messenger didn't answer, lowering his head, and the two stood in silence, shocked in their respective way. Eventually, the messenger apologised and took his leave, his mount rearing as he made haste to reach Kinloch Hold to notify the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, from where the rest of Ferelden could quickly be notified.

But for the two standing in the forest, the sudden news was enough to stop and silence them. Eventually, grimly raising himself, Celan looked up between the tunnel of leaves above them; the sky was orange, and the sun on the horizon. At this speed, they would make Lothering by tomorrow evening, but he knew that the fall of the King's Army to the south meant that it would not be long before the Blight continued its advance north; the only thing between Lothering and Ostagar was a stretch of the Imperial Highway, and the fragmented remains of the defeated army would most likely last a few days at most before being forced to retreat.

Eliann looked up to see Ser Lynell offering his hand to her, and she tentatively took it, letting him pull her up. "Lothering is no longer safe from the reached of the Blight, Mage Wulff."

She nodded. "Then let us make haste, Ser. We must do what we can for those in Lothering." The Templar wordlessly nodded, and they set off at a renewed pace, the darkness on the horizon gathering as the two emerged from the forested banks of Lake Calenhad into the openness of the final stretch of road between them and Lothering.

The Blight had finished gathering to the south, and now it advanced rapidly, hunting down those who had dared to stand in their way. Ferelden's political bickering had cost it its one chance at halting the invasion in its tracks. For the mage, the only thought burning in her head was the importance of helping those refugees who were forced into Lothering. The templar grimly resolved to bring down as many Darkspawn and apostates as he could before he fell, determined to prove himself in the Maker's eyes.

War had come to Ferelden, and it was already proving to be a disaster. But as most fled from its reaches for the furthest corners of the kingdom, two made their way towards Lothering under the cover of night, their fears confirmed and yet their resolve only strengthened as their respective origins and pasts lent to them a new sense of meaning.

Whether it would last was, of course, another question entirely.

* * *

_Author's Note_:

It may not seem like it, but this is actually a Dragon Age 2 fanfic, and the above is, in fact, the first part in a two or three part prologue to the actual thing. With a different plot following different characters, this is a relatively ambitious (_by my lowly standards)_ attempt at recreating one of my favourite canons of all time through another set of eyes.

Over the past, I've written a few fanfics, but eventually, I abandoned them due to a noticeable lack of interest. Anonymous AND logged in reviews are very, very much appreciated, because they remind me that someone is actually reading.

Another noticeable change is the pattern I intend to follow; update day will be at least once a week, preferably on Thursday or something around there. I'll try to stick to it, I promise.

So... until next time. I'm looking forward to critics and fans alike, and I'll do what I can to answer to demands (and, in fact, requests).


	2. Prologue Part Two

The sun glared down upon them.

Celan gritted his teeth and, ignoring the sweat running down his brow, hoisted the heavy pack on his shoulders up, took a deep breath and continued along the long road. The waters of Lake Calenhad still glistened in the distance, but none of its coolness was carried with the wind, which had faded down to a mere whisper in the air as the sun shone bright in its noon position, glaring down at those unfortunate enough to be below.

"Maker..." he muttered, looking down the road in front of them, past the cracked cobbles and dirt towards whatever lay at the end of the road.

Eliann had stopped for breath next to him, sitting down on a rock as she reached for a glass flask, taking a sip, and as she pushed it back into her pocket, she looked up into the sky and sighed as Celan squinted.

"Mage Wulff..." he began, and the healer turned towards him.

"Ser Lyne..." As she turned, the sight at the end of the road became visible and she trailed off, looking towards it with a mixture of disbelief and relief.

The town of Lothering.

* * *

Eventually, they had managed to pull themselves up, walking across the last stretch of road between them and the forests around Lothering, escaping the sun's fiery gaze as they made their way towards the town's outskirts. Feeling the grass under her shoes and the shade of the trees, Eliann had, before the entrance to the town, seeing the line of refugees lining up in front of the few Templars left, suggested "Ser Lynell, perhaps we should wait for a few minutes before we enter the town."

"As you wish." came the curt reply, and Celan took the opportunity to put down his heavy supplies; having rushed most of the journey, most of them had remained unused and he bitterly slumped down beside them, wondering how much easier the journey would have been without the added weight.

The mage was lying back, her head in the dewy grass, absentmindedly swatting at a nearby butterfly, and Celan quietly sat upright, watching as the line of refugees from south shuffled forwards. The soft wind which had been absent throughout most of their journey now blew past them, and as it caught his black hair, sending it fluttering, he quietly lowered it, his eyes still peering out from under his arms.

"I must admit, Ser Lynell." remarked Eliann. "If I were to meet you now, with no prior acquaintance, I cannot see you as a Templar under any circumstances."

Celan didn't respond for a while, but he seemed to bristle as the comment rang in the air. Eventually, he quietly retorted "They teach us that appearances are deceiving, Mage Wulff. Perhaps it's no different with anyone."

"Perhaps." she agreed. "Though I meant it as a compliment."

A compliment? Celan remained silent; he couldn't see how it could be a compliment. Being a Templar was more than a job; it was a decision, and an honour. The last thing he wanted was to be stripped of his identity, because...

"Templars seem distant." continued the healer, her hand dropping back to the ground as the butterfly circled once or twice around her head and locks of brown hair before floating off with the next light gust of wind, in search of something else. "It seems to all of us as though they are consumed by their work and duty, and consequently forget the fact that they are, in fact, humans like us all. Perhaps that would explain their disdain for mages. I cannot say I know much beyond what I see, but it is what the state of most Templars seems to be."

Celan glanced at her. "And I'm an exception?"

"You still have a hint of humanity about you, Ser Lynell." the healer answered with a light smile. "It is a trait worth guarding."

He mused over the words and wondered how they'd reached such different conclusions. For her, being a Templar was abandoning humanity, but he viewed it as the ultimate expression of the same thing, giving up freedom and life for the welfare of those threatened by the prospect of apostates running amok. Most viewed them as selfless knights in shining armour (or at least, he had been led to believe so), and the only ones with reservations about them were the mages themselves and the few who supported their cause. He had never found reason to doubt his cause, but he caught himself wondering whether the view looked different from the point of view of the mages. Frowning and suppressing his curiosity, he regained his composure, pushing himself up and standing, picking up the heavy supplies as he glanced over towards the now empty line.

He was a Templar, and nothing needed to change that. "... my thanks, Mage Wulff. But I don't understand how that conflicts with my being a Templar." Without waiting for a reply, he gestured towards the entrance to the town, adding "There'll be more refugees." before making his way towards his fellow Templars standing vigilantly before the village. Looking after Celan, mildly surprised by his abrupt retort, Eliann sighed and followed suit. Templars really were beyond her, despite the fact that she had spent most of her life surrounded by them.

* * *

"Halt, traveller." Stepping up towards the armed and armoured traveller, looking over his bloodstained greatsword warily, the Templar said "If you do not possess a sanctioned purpose for your being in this town, we require a mandatory tithe of ten silvers to pass."

A tithe? His hand hesitating as he reached for his insignia, Celan couldn't help but frown as he asked "Why the payment?"

"The Revered Mother has asked it of the faithful if they choose to rest here."

"There are refugees heading north from Ostagar. What becomes of them if they can't pay this tithe?"

"We cannot afford to take in any more who cannot make their own way. They are sent onwards." The Templar was becoming impatient. "Traveller, either pay the tithe or leave. There is much business to contend with, and I'm afraid that we cannot pander to your every question with the time we have."

Celan shook his head, producing the insignia alongside the sealed letter he had been given by the Knight-Commander before leaving Kinloch Hold. "I am Ser Lynell, sent to accompany this Circle Mage..." he gestured towards Eliann, who was standing off at a distance with a wary expression. "... from the Hold, and then to receive further instructions from the Revered Mother by the Knight-Commander."

"Reinforcements, and this is all they could spare...?" asked the other Templar, incredulously. "... well, I suppose it is better than nothing." Handing back the unopened letter, the armoured figure gestured towards the Chantry on the other side of the small town, past the droves of aimlessly wandering refugees and tattered makeshift tents. "The Revered Mother will be in there. Take the mage with you, I expect she will be able to help the wounded."

"I will." Taking back the letter, Celan wordlessly stepped over a puddle of thick mud and into the town, glancing at the quiet, almost abandoned inn to his right before continuing on, Eliann hurriedly following him, taking care not to be caught up in the droves of refugees.

She quietly remarked "There are many here who have lost their lives to the Blight, and many more who were defeated by it." as she glanced at a wounded soldier silently slumped over to one side, clutching a bandaged eye with a dirt-stained hand, a blank look on his face. Husband and wife, frustrated, took out their anger on each other, their shouts ringing through the air as their children stayed to one side, cowering, and she tried to intervene but Celan caught her sleeve without turning and shook his head.

"You're a mage, and I look like a traveller. If we could do something, I wouldn't stop you, but all we can do for now is visit the Revered Mother and see what we can do instead."

"I... understand, Sir Lynell." Nonetheless she glanced back at the arguing couple, almost hauntingly, before turning back to Celan, who pushed his way past a crowd lining up for bread handed out by a Templar balanced precariously atop some boxes and through a line of Templars keeping the crowd back into the Chantry's grounds, pushing open one of the doors for Eliann before slipping in himself, the wooden slab reverberating as it slammed back into place.

* * *

The thick odour of incense wafted past them, chanting mingling with moaning and echoing through the Chantry's broad halls. Slowly walking down the centre aisle of the hall, his armour clattering and drawing eyes over towards him, Celan took in the sight around him with bated breath and behind him, Eliann's eyes closed momentarily, evidently discomforted.

The wounded lay in droves across the Chantry. Propped up against one of the pews, an armless refugee lay sleeping, his bandaged covered in dried blood as his body heaved unevenly. A child lay wailing as his mother lay beside a stone pillar, coughing and hacking. A man, her husband most likely, lay on the pew to her side, his neck bandaged. Continuing down the aisle, Celan watched as a Templar, fully clad in his imposing steel armour, loomed over a refugee in a corner. The man's arm had been torn off, his face darkened and sickly, and he was murmuring something under his shallow breath as his remaining arm scraped feebly against the Knight's armour. Quietly drawing his dagger, the Templar knelt before the refugee; Eliann shut her eyes and Celan silently looked down, hearing the gurgling and the corpse slumping down as the Templar stood once more and moved onto the next infected refugee. Chantry priests, their faces white with numbed horror, were silently dragging the corpses out of the hall into the grounds outside, where they were most likely thrown into a roughly dug grave to rot after a brief ministration by a novice.

Eliann shook her head and sighed harshly, gulping as she tried to keep her reaction under control. "I thought... I thought that perhaps, it was simply a host of refugees, that the damage had been limited to the land, but..." Shaking her head, she admitted "I see Templars with wounds once in a while, but this... this is simply beyond anything I could have imagined."

"To think we'd crumble do quickly before the Darkspawn..." murmured Celan. A man, evidently deluded in some way, leaned over and tried to grasp Celan's leg.

"... Aren... Aren... I knew you weren't dead... we can be a family again..."

"No." he replied, shaking his head as he pulled his leg away, leaving the man looking lost. Burying his face in his hands and halting, he breathed deeply once or twice before making his way to the centre of the Chantry, bowing down to the great statue in the centre and waiting for Eliann to draw her gaze away from the horrific sight in the Chantry and follow him before pushing open the door to the priests' quarters. Novices and junior priests were at work looking for obscure cures to obscure afflictions in the small library they maintained; pushing past a small group of priests arguing over a recipe of some sort for a potion, and a single priest lying in the corner, catching a minute of sleep while he was off duty, Celan knocked on the door at the other end of the room, which looked closed for a reason.

"... yes, do come in." answered a dejected voice, and he obliged.

The room was a scene of chaos. Papers and books lay littered across the floor of the Revered Mother's office, and a Templar stood in front of her desk, calmly trying to explain something to her but she continued to shake her head and try her best to respond calmly in turn until the Templar gave up, respectfully excusing himself and turning to leave, muttering something in the process. His eyes followed the leaving Templar, together with Eliann's, and they watched as he barged past the priests and into the Chantry hall, where another Templar stood waiting for him.

"And who are you, my children?" Turning back to the Revered Mother, already reaching for his insignia, he was about to introduce himself before seeing the fatigue painted across the aged priestess's face as she hastily rubbed her eyes before turning her gaze towards him.

"I take it the lady is a Circle Mage. Good, good, then the First Enchanter has seen fit to send us aid." She shrugged. "You must have seen the situation within our own halls. Please, do as much as you can for the refugees; the Chantry's priests will provide you with what you need."

"I will do my best, Revered Mother." Eliann tried to sound as confident as she could, but Celan could hear the doubt and delay in the quivering of her voice as she hastily turned away, disappearing back into the hall.

The Revered Mother's eyes fell on Celan, who produced the sealed letter and insignia once more, placing them both before her. "I am Ser Lynell, sent by Knight-Commander Greagoir. He instructed me to give the letter to you and then take orders from the Chantry of Lothering." She nodded and pushed the insignia back towards Celan; as he picked it back up, dropping it into his pouch, he watched as the Revered Mother's expression contorted from fatigue into a frown, and then resignation. Her eyes lingering on the letter, she eventually put it down.

"The Chantry never fails to act, or so it seems." Her dry tone told far more than her words did, but Celan didn't ask, and eventually, her attention returned to him. "You will have your instructions in good time, but not yet. Until then, I must ask you to help me in any way you know how."

"Yes, Revered Mother." Celan stayed standing, however, and after a momentary lull, he asked the priestess "If I may ask..."

"Yes?"

"Why was the Templar speaking to you earlier?"

"Ser Pert? Ever since I instated the mandatory tithe, he has come to me daily to ask me to remove it."

Celan frowned. "And why cannot you?"

The Revered Mother simply smiled resignedly and gestured towards her window. "The Blight doesn't look like it's stopping, as far as I'm aware. As the Chantry's representative, it would be unwise of me to forsake the Maker's name by ordering a mass exodus from the town. On the other hand, I know that the Blight will eventually reach Lothering, and that we will have to evacuate its inhabitants when that happens."

Celan saw through her reasoning, and finished the explanation. "So you're trying your best to keep people moving without being overt about it."

"The refugees are given supplies before they're sent on their way. It's better to keep the trail moving whenever possible. I may not be able to prevent the determined from staying in Lothering, but I can do what I can to encourage them not to."

Celan nodded quietly. Eventually, footsteps rang out behind him and, turning with a gauntleted hand on his dagger, he saw a priest with a pained expression on his face, panting as he sprinted into the room. "Revered Mother!" he exclaimed. "The refugees from Ostagar, they're at it again!"

Sighing, she looked up at Celan. "There are a few refugees arguing over something or the other in front of the Chantry, and its starting to become quite a bother for us, we have enough problems on our hands as it is. Could you possibly find some way to settle their dispute for the good of all of us?" He silently nodded, and she smiled in relief. "Thank you, my child. The Maker be with you."

"And with you also, Revered Mother."

"Thank you." she replied. As Celan left her office, she added "Novice Jameson, go with this Templar and aid him as you can."

"Yes, Revered Mother." The young priest bowed deeply and hurriedly turned to chase the Templar, leaving the Revered Mother to stare blankly after them before crumpling, burying her head in her hands as the weight of her fatigue pushed down upon her, crushing.

* * *

"So... have you been a Templar for long?" The novice looked edgy, and Celan felt a pang as he saw the look of desperate interest in the man's eyes; anything, as long as it wasn't a reminder of the misery around them.

He nodded. "I haven't fought much, and I haven't seen much. But in name, I've been a Templar since as far back as I can remember." The old man who had called out to him earlier now sat back with a blank look on his face as Eliann, together with some mages, tried to treat him as best as they could.

The novice ignored the sight, and stuttered as he replied. "F... From birth, then?"

"No. I was found, they say, when I was three, left outside the Chantry in Redcliffe with this..." He patted the sword on my back. "They said it was a sign from the Maker that I was destined to be a great warrior, and promptly pushed me into the Templar Order."

"So you don't know who your parents are?"

"I... no, I don't." It was a subject he preferred to stay away from, but the novice didn't, or at least pretended not to notice.

"So all you have is a mysterious sword."

Celan shook his head, dropping a few silvers into the collection box at the entrance in the hope that the Maker would take mercy. "It's not particularly mysterious." he replied. "Just a sword."

"Does it do anything?"

"It's artistic? It's cutting blade is always keen enough, and beyond that, nothing matters." As he approached the door, sounds of shouting and the occasional grunt could be heard outside; his hand going to one of his daggers, he murmured "Novice, perhaps you should remain in here."

"But the Revered Mother..."

"I can take care of myself. Take a rest, you need it." he replied. The novice nodded hesitantly, slumping down with relief against the wall, and Celan opened and slipped past the door as he emerged into the bright sunlight and the assembled crowd in front of him; truth be told, it would be a problem if his identity as a Templar became widespread. After all, there was probably a reason for the Knight-Commander's insistence that he go incognito.

The line of Templars in front of the Chantry were standing impassively, but even if they had tried, the thickness of the crowd between them and whatever commotion was occurring in the centre was impressive. One had his hand on the pommel of his blade as Celan wordlessly slipped past him, pushing his way into the crowd; catching sight of a flailing arm in the air, he tapped a nearby man on the shoulder and, hushed, asked "What's going on here, then?"

"Haven't you heard? Sean's finally gone all out, he's giving Fox the treatment." The man's tired face was lit up with the eagerness of a child; feeling mildly sick, Celan nodded wordlessly and pushed past him, gradually making him way through the crowd.

"You shitbag. I told you to stay the fuck away from my family, I did, and you just had to come back. Well, I'm going to make sure your eyes never see the light of day a... gain!" An arm sailed through the air and met nothing; someone seemed to stumble before trying to land another blow and another; seeing the scuffle closer in front of him, Celan managed to get within a few rows of the spectacle with a few mumbled excuses before he had to resort to the authority his sword and armour gave him to push his way to the front of the crowd.

The fight was vicious. The taller man, his clothes dusty and ragged, leaned over a relatively tall and well built but nonetheless smaller figure, trying to pummel him into the ground. His fist only met dust with each attempt, obviously frustrating him further, and with a roar, the taller one tightened his grip on the man's torso between his legs and pounded the dust again. Eventually, the subdued man seemed to stop fighting back; both Celan and the taller man recognised the consequences of the apparent moment of weakness. Before the taller man could bring his fist down he, his hands on his daggers, shouted "Stop! What is this mess?"

"And who the fuck do you think you are, then?" An indignant voice from the crowd rang out, and others quickly joined it, throwing abuse towards the sudden interruption in the middle. The taller man stopped trying to hit the man under him and slowly, balefully, stood up, turning his damning gaze on the young newcomer before his eyes.

"Stay out of this, kid." he growled, his eyes glaring directly into Celan's green-eyed frown. "If you know what's best for you."

"All right, that's enough." Drawing his greatsword and swinging it around him menacingly, Celan warned "All of you shut up, lest I take out my anger on you. Ser, if you'd just step off your victim for a moment and tell me what's going on, maybe we can sort this out another way."

The man laughed scornfully. "Always the idealist, eh? Well let me spell it our for your fucking child eyes. This here's a murderer. I'm gonna make him pay the price of blood."

A murderer. This was an unusual development. "What do you have to say for yourself?" asked Celan, trying not to reveal his true colours whilst retaining some degree of influence over the crowd, his greatsword still resting in his hand.

The man on the ground shrugged. "I won't deny it, he's got me. I'm a murderer all right."

...what? His expression incredulous, Celan shook his head in disbelief. "... you admit to your crime?"

"Of course." came the abrupt and slightly confused response. "It's just that; a crime. Suppressing it only leads to more trouble."

"Who did you... murder?" Celan's grip on his sword remained strong, but his expression seemed uncertain and the crowd hushed as the man shrugged.

"It was a man in a dispute, a long while ago." He shrugged. "I told you, it's true. I won't resist retribution if that's what you want." The man looked resigned, tired even, and under his mud-stained cheeks, Celan realised that something wasn't right.

"You, tall man. Get off the murderer." The man hesitated, but seeing the keen blade of the greatsword angling towards him, he relented and stepped away, letting the supposed murderer slump back into the dirt, exhausted. "What do you mean by a 'long time ago'?"

"Ten years or so." The subdued man shrugged.

"And you knew this murdered man?" asked Celan to the taller man. "Is this why you're doing this?"

The taller man shook his head. "He admits to murder, and waltzes around like nothing's happened. If he's not dangerous to our children, I don't know what is."

Annoyed, Celan stepped forwards and asked "Are you actually connected with the murder in any way?"

"Well, no." admitted the man. "But he's a menace to our society, to our children. I say we kill 'im, leave 'im to rot and let the virtuous in." There was mild cheering from within the crowd, but not much; already, the vast majority of the people present had lost interest and were leaving, chattering amongst themselves as they went off to look for some other source of entertainment.

"That's not a decision for you to take. If you have a problem, take it to the Chantry." The man looked annoyed by the statement, but he realised that Celan's greatsword posed a direct threat to his life and shook his head instead.

"The Chantry doesn't know what it's doing. It's time likes this when we have to band together and..."

Celan lost interest. Stepping up to the man, he returned the greatsword to its place on his back and drew his dagger, threateningly pointing it towards him. "That's it. Get off before I kill you as well."

"What? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"The man with the sword." came the dry response from below, only to be met by spit by the taller man, who then shot a look towards Celan.

"Damn that." he muttered, and landed a blow on the man's back.

Wincing, the subdued figure nonetheless stretched open his palm and let something metallic clatter out, remarking "You should keep it tucked in next time." Seeing the thing fall to the ground the man, rage and embarrassment painted across his face, was about to take his revenge with a series of brutal kicks, but Celan shoved him aside and pressed the tip of his dagger against his throat.

"Go. Now." he muttered. The man kept his gaze, equally enraged, for a full five seconds, before pulling away and dusting himself off, spitting at the lone figure lying in the dust, a blank expression on his face.

"You aren't worth it." the taller figure muttered. "The lot of you are all murderous scum." before turning tail and storming away, followed by most of the crowd, leaving behind a few bewildered bystanders and the few who had been unfortunate enough to make the patch of land their temporary home. Watching the man leave, Celan wondered what had driven the man to take justice into his own hands for a matter that didn't concern him at all.

There was shuffling from below, and he turned to see the man's face, relatively unscathed and nonchalant despite the fact that he had been in the process of being beaten badly when Celan had intervened. With a shock of ash-blonde hair rising from his head, and a shade of stubble, he looked exactly like a defeated soldier, except for the fact that he wasn't trudging back along the road through Lothering, dejected, and lacked all of the discipline a soldier would have. He had managed to sit up, his eyes looking blankly after the direction in which his assailant had disappeared, and after a brief moment of silence, he remarked "You should have left me where I was."

He didn't look... annoyed. Rather, his expression seemed disappointed, even tired, as he sat looking into the distance. Celan wasn't expecting that answer, and he simply replied "I was told to do so by the Revered Mother. I'm sorry if it went against your will, but if it did, I was never told."

The man shook his head and smiled. "No, no, no. Don't get me wrong; I'm grateful for your help, and I don't hold it against you. It just seems as though it's easier to just get it over with sometimes..." He pouted, thinking, but before Celan could over a response, he shrugged and pulled himself up, dusting off his vest and kicking the blade he'd taken away from the man into a clump of grass by the side of the road, where it tumbled and stuck inside a muddy puddle.

Watching him look about for anything he might have dropped, Celan stood curiously off to one side. "If I may ask..."

"Go ahead."

"Why was the man attacking you?"

There was no response but eventually, picking up a small pouch and opening it to peer inside, he shrugged. "Personal issues, probably. Everyone's lost something, and I guess he decided to take that frustration out on somebody."

"... which you don't have a problem with?" Celan was bewildered; the man didn't seem to show much emotion despite the fact that he had just been attacked. During the attack, he'd barely resisted, after the attack, he'd even gone so far as to justify his assailant's actions... he was either very forgiving, passive or out of his mind.

"At least he's doing it to me. If it helps him get rid of some of his frustration, why not?"

"I..." It wasn't that he was lost for words; Celan could think of a hundred different reasons 'why not', with twenty of those at the tip of his tongue. But something about the man's composition and smoothness stopped him from ever uttering them, leaving him staring at the man with something between a Templar's characteristic guardedness and slight curiosity in his eyes.

The man returned the stare and held it for a few seconds. Neither of them knew where to go, or what to say, and the moment was growing steadily awkward. Eventually, quickly extending his right hand, the man went with the easiest option at hand. "So, I guess I should thank you. I'm Edris, Edris Trine, but people tend to call me Fox; I'm not quite sure why." he told Celan, smiling slyly as he said the last phrase.

Caught off-guard by the sudden introduction, Celan took the hand and began "I'm S..." Catching himself just in time, he managed to say "Celan. Celan Lynell."

Edris nodded approvingly as he shook Celan's hand with a firm grip, looking him in the eye so keenly and purposefully that Celan's first thoughts were for his pouches. "You don't look like you're a soldiering sort; too young. How did you end up in this corner of the civilised world, then?"

"Oh..." It struck Celan that despite telling him not to be a Templar, the Knight-Commander hadn't given him a replacement identity. Thinking as quickly as he could, he began "Well, my... my old man... was a blacksmith."

"I see." Edris looked over the young man's gear appreciatively, and Celan realised that through sheer luck, he'd managed to explain his incredibly warlike appearance.

"And... he went to Ostagar with the King's army."

"Under the Quartermaster? Because I knew him, that old bugge..."

Celan quickly said "No. No, he went... independently, to help."

"A true patriot." Edris's smile widened ever so slightly, and Celan felt slightly uncomfortable.

"That's... it, yes. So... the battle happened, it ended, and..."

"... you couldn't find him?"

"Um... yes. So... I followed the crowd." A bead of sweat ran down Celan's neck, but he kept Edris's stare, hoping the man hadn't noticed his (in retrospect) badly fabricated life story.

The man nodded thoughtfully, letting go of Celan's hand. "Well." he remarked. "You look like you know your way around a blade, you have authority, you speak like a true noble..." The corners of his mouth flickered and rose, and he finished "... but if there's one thing your 'old man' never taught you, it's how to lie."

Celan's hand itched as he kept himself for going to his daggers, worried that his identity was compromised, but a realisation that the Maker forbade such killing, together with a suspicion that Edris didn't intend to dig further, kept him from doing so. The man shrugged. "Well, I know your name is Celan Lynell. If you don't want to tell me about your past, don't you worry; after all, it's not as though I would have told you mine, and all that matters is personality..." He tapped Celan on the shoulder as he said this. "... which I have a pretty good idea of already."

And that was it. Edris simply shrugged and walked away, his figure strangely isolated amidst the crowds of refugees as he disappeared into some distant corner of Lothering. Celan could swear, though, that something about him seemed... different at the last moment, a glint or a gleam of some kind.

Rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand, Celan heard the novice calling for him. Glancing at the sun, high in the sky above, he closed his eyes and sighed for a moment before turning to answer the call, disappearing back into the Chantry.

* * *

He helped in Lothering for three more days. Thankfully, the darkspawn-ridden were mostly dead already, so there was no need to put innocents to the blade; that said, there was no shortage of suffering. Supplies were dwindling, with more and more refugees pouring in despite the mandatory tithe, and despite their best efforts, even the most faithful could see that the end of Lothering as a refugee camp was drawing near. The last of those fleeing from Ostagar were trickling in, and eventually, the Revered Mother ordered the Templars and priests to make preparations for the march north, from where they could attempt to make their way into the Bannorn. The equipment was packed up, and the refugees were told that they would be moving. It wasn't an announcement that was met with much joy, but much resistance either; only the most foolish hadn't known that it was an inevitability which was long overdue.

And yet, despite their hasty preparations, they had acted too late.

* * *

He gritted his teeth as he tightened the thread, cutting it with his dagger as Eliann sealed the rest of the wound, a slight glow surrounding it as the flesh seemed to knit itself together. "I must apologise. I cannot heal your wounds in their entirety; you will have to bear with the thread for at least a month, with regular cleaning." The soldier shrugged, and Celan nodded.

"Thank you, Ser Lynell." She stood up, leaning on her staff, and gestured towards the hall, which looked far more orderly and peaceful than when they had first arrived; the fruit of days of hard labour. Looking at her bloodstained hands, and at his own, Celan shook his head and leaned against the wall. Understanding, she offered him a morsel of bread, which he took with gratitude. "Being a healer used to seem to... clean, and safe." she remarked. "All we did was look at herbs and spells under the guidance of our elders in great stone chambers, take examinations and do more of the same thing until we qualified. But I guess nothing prepares you for the reality of things."

Celan took a bite of the bread before replying, wiping the crumbs from his cheeks in a subconscious attempt to remain cleanly before noticing the stench of blood smeared across them. "I know blood; I spill it. But it always feels unnatural."

The healer nodded. She was still leaning against her staff, and Celan drew his sword, putting it down to the side of a column as he dipped his hands in a bucket, rubbing off the crimson stains as best as he could. "We should be finished for now, Ser Lynell." Eliann had stood up, surveying the state of the hall, and she was ardent to ensure that the Templar was not put through more stress. "Please, do take a rest." He would otherwise have protested, but her expression looked determined and besides, he hadn't slept for too long. Nodding mutely, he dried his hands and pulled on his gauntlets, making his way over to a pile of shredded mattresses to one side of the hall where he had established himself over the past days, for the lack of anywhere better to rest. His sack made a good support for his back, and between that and the mattresses, it was the best he could come up with. He let his sword rest to his right and lay down; somehow, wearing his armour felt more secure, as well as providing more warmth in the cold halls of the Chantry.

Lying down on the pile, he let his head sink back and he looked drowsily across the Chantry, seeing the glow of Mage Wulff's magic to one side. Three days of almost relentless work had finally dealt with the injured. All they needed was one more day of work, and they'd be fine.

For now, though, he'd rest. His thoughts went from ones to work to more distant memory as his eyes slowly shut, taking him into a faraway world of hazy dreams and thoughts.

* * *

She was, admittedly, struggling to keep the man under control. A darkspawn blade had pushed through his right arm, but the Templars had wasted no time in amputating it and she was trying as hard as she possibly could to draw out what little remained of the darkspawn blood inside his veins, which was the one chance they had of saving his life.

It was no easy task for anyone involved, however, and she knew that the stress of work was beginning to take its toll. Celan had been asleep for a few hours now, and the only Templar left to aid her, a junior, was having trouble keeping the struggling man down without inflicting pain. "Please, just a moment longer..." she found herself murmuring, and she furrowed her brows, trying to concentrate as she drew the blood out of his veins. The globules of darkspawn blood began to appear, spattering against the cold, stone floor, and the struggling began to stop until, as she held her breath, the last globule hit the ground. Without wasting time, she quickly used her last vestiges of magic to seal the blood vessels and exposed flesh, tying a makeshift bandage over it with great care as the man collapsed, breathing heavily into the Templar's arms. "He should be fine, Ser Templar."

"We still have four more to get through, Mage, before the day is done." The Templar looked up at the windows, where the orange light of the waning sun shone through brightly as the day died away with frightening speed. "And little speed to do so."

"I can see that, Ser. Let us hurry." She struggled to pick herself up, and as she made her way across her hall towards the next patient, her hand reaching for a lyrium potion.

There were shouts from outside. The Templar's head perked up, and they were quickly joined by more. "Yet more squabbles..." he muttered. "What would the Maker think?" But the screams continued, and soon, the town bell began to ring.

"No." They looked back to see the Revered Mother. "This is no squabble, Templar."

"Your Grace?" She was stepping forwards with a lost expression on her face, and realisation dawned within Eliann as well. The lone Templar's hand was already going for his sword, and as the doors to the Chantry opened with a creak, he placed himself between the Revered Mother and the door, the acrid stench of smoke and flesh pouring through into the hall alongside a gust of wind as the ominous gleam of bloodstained teeth and inhuman eyes emerged.

"Heathen scum!" The Templar was the first to react. He sprinted forwards, roaring, and Eliann shut her eyes as the whistle of bolts echoed through the air. Catching one on his gauntlet, the Templar stumbled as the other punched through his chestplate, and he collapsed at the feet of a looming creature, barely moving before a sword to the back of his exposed neck ended his short life for good. His armoured body jerked limply, warm blood trickling out of his wound, and as the helpless occupiers of the hall looked on, the first armoured boot crashed onto the corpse, and the first pair of inhuman eye looked out over them.

In the days between the arrival of the healer and her escort, and now, all contact between Ostagar and Lothering had been lost. Most had assumed that no refugees were left between the two settlements, but the truth was far bloodier. In a display of uncharacteristic cunning, the Blight had seemingly slowed its pace of advance, but the reality was a flanking hook that isolated the vast majority of those advancing, leaving them trapped and easy prey for the main force. For those three days, screams had echoed underneath the burning trees as the refugees were systematically exterminated by the darkspawn from whom they had attempted to escape, but their assumption that the enemy was single-minded had led to their cruel demise. Lothering was much the same. Assuming that the Blight would continue on at the pace at which it had left Ostagar, the senior Templar, a Ser Halden, had suggested that evacuation in three days' time would, in fact. leave another three days until the first darkspawn reached Lothering, which would hopefully be empty by then and, by any luck, surrounded by the bulk of the Bannorn-lords' forces. Even when the first reports of darkspawn massing near the town had been treated as hysteria, and it was only when a Hurlock bolt rammed through the same Ser Halden's head that the alarms went up in earnest. But, by then, things were too late, and the darkspawn had already set foot in the Chantry.

For the Revered Mother, whose trust in Ser Halden had been absolute, it was a shock. As the first Hurlock, something between a snarl and grin, accompanied by spittle and a grunt, emerging on irs face, stepped forward, she staggered back, lost for words. Eliann knew she was too weak to wield her magic; the wounded had sapped her of mana, and the few offensive spells she knew were not sufficient to stop a horde of darkspawn. What Templars were left within the room were slowly converging on the door, but even they would stand little chance against a concentrated attack by the darkspawn. There was a standoff, a moment of tension as the lead Hurlock watched the movements of the Templars, its boot twisting against the dead Templar's helmet, and its hand grasped its crude, bloodstained blade tightly, the corrupted product of mankind's arrogance looking over its creators with disdain. The Templars were wary; staying behind their shields and stepping back, they waited with swords drawn for the Hurlock to move.

It was a blur of movement. The Templars could do little to stop it as it bounded forward, one, two, three steps at a time as it leaped over a row of makeshift benched and landed in front of the Revered Mother. Her Grace could do very little to stop it, and the Hurlock raised its twisted blade like some symbol of satisfaction and victory, about to bring it down on her without another moment of delay. The healer was powerless in her current state, and the Templars were...

Warm blood spattered across her, and she sighed deeply. So deeply, in fact, that it took her a moment to notice that the pain was missing, and she opened her eyes in surprise to see Ser Lynell standing in front of her and, in his hands, his ornate blade spattered with the Hurlock's thick, dark blood, the headless corpse slumped to one side of the central aisle as, his right gauntlet sprayed with a grotesque mixture of dried human blood and the Hurlock's fluids, he stepped forwards, a grim expression on his face.

"Spilling blood should seem unnatural." he remarked, as the Hurlocks in front of him stepped back with surprise etched on their expressions. "But when the blood itself is unnatural, all I feel is the necessity to get rid of its owner."

He threw himself at the Hurlocks. The first went down without a fight, but the others quickly learned their lesson and spread out. Celan managed to keep them at bay with the greatsword, even managing a few cuts, but the Hurlock, alert as they were, were no longer the easy opponents they had been when taken by surprised. He blocked a few sporadic strikes and eventually lunged; his blade met the chestplate of one of the Hurlocks and he placed his weight behind the blade as the thing tried desperately to pull back, before the blade crushed its armour and sheared through its body, coughing up more black blood before slumping forwards on the blade. He tried to continue the fight, but the Hurlock's body was too heavy and he found himself struggling to retreat as the others took the opportunity to lunge towards him, only to meet shields as the other Templars joined the battle. They made short work of the darkspawn, and without further ado, they quickly emerged into Lothering.

Smoke rose in the horizon, and a frenzied skirmish was taking place in the centre of the town as those few who were fortunate enough to be armed fought off the darkspawn vanguard while the refugees left at short notice. The Revered Mother stepped out of the Chantry with grim resolution on her face, and Eliann was already directing the injured out of the hall to join the crowd of refugees.

"Your Grace. Please, take the Templars with you and guard the refugees during your escape. I will join the willing refugees in fighting off the darkspawn vanguard to buy the column time to escape with the injured."

"Where will we go?" asked the Revered Mother, and Celan pointed towards the road along which the refugees were going.

"Gwaren, your Grace. Ferelden is beset by the Blight; our only hope is to escape from the port before the kingdom is overrun."

"Then we will go to Gwaren." She reached into her robes, and handed him a familiar letter. "Your orders from the Knight Commander were in the event such a thing as this happened. Do what you must, Ser Lynell, but remember your allegiance to the Chantry amidst the fever of battle."

He bowed in respect as he took the letter, taking care not to stain it as he pushed it into his pouch. "We will join you as soon as we can." The Revered Mother sighed and shook her head.

"Such dark times. We will lose ourselves if we do not take care." Nodding respectfully to Celan, she quickly shuffled away with the injured, helping them on their way.

Eliann looked towards Celan. "Ser Lynell, if you require aid..." She was exhausted, but behind the fatigue and worry, there was genuine concern for the young Templar.

"No, Mage Wulff." His response was abrupt, as always, and he turned away. "The injured will benefit more from your presence; go with them."

In the distance, roars went up as the bloodstained refugees made their stand against the darkspawn, meeting their cruel, curved blades in the thick mud with their own blades under the waning sun, amidst thick clouds of spreading smoke and the flames of the town around them. The last of the refugees walked the long road out of the town, not with worry but determination as they, directed by the remaining Templars and the Revered Mother, all together under the same sky despite their varying origins and social standing, as they made their way along an old mountain path towards Gwaren, where their last hope for survival waited. Darkspawn gathered on the horizon, nothing but a crowd of determined refugees and ex-soldiers between them and their long awaited prey, frustrated and brutal as they tried hard without avail to break the resistance as the humans escaped into the wilderness.

Eliann smiled and shrugged. "You really are no ordinary Templar, Ser Lynell. Different from the norm and... interesting." She looked wistful, and eventually nodded. "But you are right, I guess. I cannot expect you to be my escort when your have a battle to fight." Pulling something out of her robes, she dropped it into Celan's hand before he could protest, drawing her blue robes about her as she grasped her staff tightly. "Keep that, Ser Lynell." she told him. "And return it to me when we next meet." With those words hanging in the air, she turned and left to join the column, leaving Celan to stand before the empty Chantry, a battle at his back, staring in surprise at the contents of his bloodstained hand.

It was a brooch, not a mage's usual property and an ornate one at that. His eyes turning away from her retreating figure, he fixed it onto his right sleeve, under his plate gauntlet, and his grip on his greatsword tightened.

Pulling his sack onto his back, his strode towards the fray, the flames licking at his boots as he walked through them towards the darkspawn, who had momentarily pulled back to leave the refugees to reform. They obligingly made a gap amongst their ranks to accommodate him, and he saw familiar faces all over the place. The novice stood grimly with a mace in hand. The assailant nodded grudgingly at him, axe hanging limply from his grip as he wiped blood from his sleeves. Soldiers and shoemakers, refugees and the religious, merchants and... murderers.

Edris smiled widely as Celan joined their ranks. "Somehow, I knew you'd be here." he remarked. "I guess I do understand your personality after all; at the end of the day, you're willing to throw away your life after all, even if your reasoning is different from mine."

And the Templar shook his head and smiled, wordlessly joining acquaintances and strangers in the stand against the darkspawn, their determination more than a match for the frustration of the darkspawn.

They would survive, all of them.

* * *

_Author's Note_

A three part prologue, then. At least I updated on a Tuesday; will you _please _forgive my long-windedness?

I got two reviews, which were both nice to read and helped (I swear, the mistake pointed out would have been corrected if it weren't for those Blighted 'Error Type 2s') greatly. Hopefully, there'll be more reviews that are nice to read and help; note that if anyone has requests or ideas (note that all this is eventually going to be set in Kirkwall), I'll do my best to satisfy them within the confines of my plans.

With several people breathing down my neck thanks to several different deadlines, my writing's been a little rushed. If I've missed anything significant, please don't hesitate to point it out, because I've probably done so by mistake rather than on purpose.

Until next time, then. Stay tuned for... more (and, if I can finish it, a drawing of Ser Lynell).


End file.
